


Douse the Street Light

by misura



Category: Bell Book and Candle (1958), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>On a stage, in front of an audience, Howard Stark is charming.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sitting next to you with a broad smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes and a drink in one hand, he is ... not less charming, Nick decides.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Douse the Street Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/gifts).



Howard Stark is a technological wizard by any other name. Nick watches him prance across a stage ten times that of the Zodiac Club, smug and arrogant and entirely convinced that nobody at the Great Exhibition could possibly be as smart as he is.

It's a little bit like looking into a mirror.

(Somehow, he's never considered himself to be a narcissist.)

 

"Just fancy: a flying car," Shep says. He sounds like a man who's just discovered magic really does exist.

Gil smiles indulgently, like a woman in love. Queenie sniffs. It's the kind of sniff that says any flying car thinking to cut her off mid-air had better reconsider. In fact, any car thinking about taking to the air at all had better reconsider, as there are more things between heaven and earth than dreamt of in Mr Howard Stark's workplace.

"Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," Nick says. He's not entirely convinced it's true (since what would that say about _him_?) but it sounds good. Catchy.

"You could make a flying car?" There's something rather sweet about Shep making puppy eyes at Gil. Something slightly disturbing, too, on occasion, because every now and then, Nick catches himself wondering what it might feel like, to have someone look at you like that.

It's been two months, one week and six days since Gil got her power back.

"I could, but I shan't." Gil smiles. 

Shep droops. "But - "

"And that Mr Stark - quite a handsome fellow, isn't he? And rich, I bet," Queenie says, as ever quick to change the topic when the conversation is headed in an uncomfortable direction.

"He sure is," Shep says, like someone who's seen the actual numbers. Perhaps he has.

"And still a bachelor, too, I do believe."

Gil's expression turns slightly alarmed. "Now, Auntie - "

"Oh, not for me, dear. For Nicky. It'll be just the thing."

"I really don't know if - " Gil starts. She's never commented on his life style, precisely, but he knows getting married has changed her in more ways than just the 'becoming human' thing.

"I think it's an excellent idea," Shep - Shep! says. "Now, I've heard he's interested in getting some sort of memoir published - about what he did for this fine country during the War, don't you know? Why don't I invite him over some time, see how things go, take him for drinks at the Zodiac after?"

"The Zodiac? Now, really, Shep - "

"Perfect!" Queenie says.

 

On a stage, in front of an audience, Howard Stark is charming.

Sitting next to you with a broad smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes and a drink in one hand, he is ... not less charming, Nick decides. The negotiations with Shep must have gone well - or maybe it's just that that drink in Howard's hand isn't exactly his first. (It occurs to Nick he might have a type. Inasfar as 'heavy drinkers' is a type, given that Sid sure wasn't any kind of tech wiz.)

Queenie's already slipped away - Mrs DePass seems to have a new beau, and of course there's Zoe and Waldo and that chap from the Paris chapter they're supposed to pretend is Canadian to talk to. For starters.

"You dance, pal?"

"Not here," Nick says, too quickly, perhaps. (He's not used to being nervous. He's not used to picking up dates at the Zodiac, either, though - there's just too many people around here who know him. Admittedly, there was the band thing, but that wasn't so much a pick-up as it was a matter of not saying 'no' at a strategic moment.)

"Someplace else?"

The Mumbo Jumbo is more for drinking than for dancing. "Maybe."

 

It's not a love spell.

It's understood that, while there may be dancing, there won't be any of this love and marriage stuff that's got Gil walking around smiling like a human fool all the time.

(At least, Nick thinks this is understood until Pyewacket slips in through the kitchen window while he's playing the good host and pouring Howard some breakfast coffee.)

"Bless you. Allergies?"

Pyewacket's been Gil's and Queenie's, but never his. "No. No allergies. Just a cold." _I hope._

 

Howard offers a (personally) guided tour of his workshop. Nick accepts - out of curiosity, he tells himself. There's nothing wrong with taking an interest; he's done it plenty of times before.

Nick expects the tour to leave him feeling smug. Howard's technological gadgets ought to be quite advanced enough to look like magic, and very little magic impresses Nick these days. (So it goes, when your sister happens to be the most powerful witch of the century.) Plus, even if he might not be able to do everything Howard's technology is able to do, he can still stop it with the simplest of spells, as easy as snuffing out a bunch of street lamps.

"Might want to pick up that jaw off the floor now, pal."

Nick manages a weak chuckle.

 

The idea that he might be suffering from the same illness as Gil is, of course, preposterous.

"This kind of thing, it runs in the family, don't you know," Mrs DePass comments to Mrs Applegrove, who nods wisely.

In all likeliness, they're talking about gout or the inclination to enjoy eating radishes.

"Such a pity," Mrs Whittleby puts in.

Even if it's true, even if there's more to this than some harmless dancing - well, then that's easily enough to cure, isn't it? Gil simply let it go on for too long, drew it out for too long. Nick won't be making that mistake. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he'll ring up Howard and tell him -

"Are you free later tonight?"

One of the two trumpets behind him is softly murmuring a hint of a song - not _Stormy Weather_ , but a warning, all the same. _Turn back now, or else. Last call, Nicky boy._

Less than an hour ago, he turned all the traffic lights on 57th green again.

"Well, this is a surprise. Sorry, no can do - the band, you see." There's a guy from India whom they're supposed to pretend is from the Hawaiian chapter who does amazing things with snakes.

Howard nods, once - not like he's agreeing, but more like he's finishing up a spell, which is ridiculous, clearly, except that Nick feels the rest of the band step back, launch into a new song, leaving him behind, alone.

"Doesn't look like they need someone to play the bongo drums for this one, pal," Howard says.

 

"All right, I'm done."

Queenie blinks once, looking startled and slightly guilty.

"Done?" Gil looks like she's feeling sorry for him. Fair enough, Nick supposes; poor girl can't help it.

"You mean he made you an offer?" Shep asks.

Queenie blinks again. "An offer?" Nick repeats. "What are you talking about?"

"A job offer," Shep says. "Clever mind, quick wits - and you're good with your hands, too, don't sell yourself short. So what if you haven't got a degree; you can learn. You picked up music in - what, two weeks? And anyway, the way I hear it, Mr Stark disagrees with half the things they teach youngsters at university these days anyway. You'd be perfect."

"Shep. My dear Shep." Nick twirls his hat, thinking. "It wasn't a job I was after. It was the man himself."

"I don't follow."

Gil looks amused - no help to be counted on from _that_ quarter.

"Never mind, it's ended now. Over. _Finis._ " And good riddance.

"He does know where you work," Queenie says.

"Very shortly, he won't even know what my last name was anymore."

"Nicky, I don't think - " Gil starts, and quite rightly. He's fudged people's memories before, but he's no Gil; results have varied widely. "If something goes wrong - "

"Then nothing happens at all, and I shall be no worse off than before."

 

As it turns out, he's right about the first part, wrong about the second.

 

The traffic lights on 57th stay red for an entire minute, the next morning, which is gratifying.

(He'd been aiming for two minutes, and green lights, but that's nobody else's business.)

"Well, if you weren't a witch, what would you do? For a living, I mean," Shep asks, because there are things Nick will happily go to Gil for, and things he feels should be only talked about with a fellow male. (Or rather: someone who hasn't already made the choice between magic and love, and never mind that Gil's powers came back eventually; no guarantee at all the same'll happen when it's him).

Nick coughs. "It's 'warlock'."

"You could still play in the band, of course."

Nick considers explaining how his magic works with just a touch of music, then decides against it. There's no point, really. "I'll do anything, really. I mean, hey, you name it, I've probably done it already."

Shep looks slightly surprised. He's in a family business, same as Nick, except that in Shep's case, the family business actually means making money. "So, that's not a problem, then."

"No problem at all," Nick says, and then he laughs at the sheer idiocy of it all.

"Gil worries about you, you know."

"Ah, Gil's a dear." He'll die of boredom, most likely. It's like Gil's said: he's only ever used his magic for small things - street lamps and traffic lights and locked doors and a bit of come-hither every now and then. He uses it when he plays the bongo drums, when he wakes up in the morning, when there's a spot on his jacket. "Now, how about that drink?"

 

~the end~

 

bonus scene/outtake:

_When I first conceived of this fic, I wrote a flurry of scenes, some of which made it into the final fic, some of which didn't. This is one bit that didn't make it:_

"I'm a warlock," Nicky says, and it's a confession and a farewell and a declaration of love all rolled into one, because he doesn't _do_ this.

"Good for you, pal," and Nicky's not even sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Howard takes this so easily, so lightly. He's almost sure that Howard believes him, though.

His face feels reassuringly unflushed. At least there's that.


End file.
